Photo of a man and woman kissing on a beach at sunset. Photo courtesy of Picryl.
This summer I spent an inexcusable amount of time watching the reality television show Love Island USA and, inadvertently, I managed to learn something. I could pretend that my interest was purely ironic, but that would be a bald-faced lie. Watching the show, I couldn’t help but be captivated by the individuals, their relationships, and the spectacular ways that they mess up on national television. It was through this intrusive fascination, however, that I began to notice an oddly familiar pattern emerging in the show’s narratives. Although Love Island USA has positioned itself as a more diverse iteration of the franchise, its rapid growth has intensified the social consequences of a format that continues to rely on produced narratives that mirror familiar racialized and gendered stereotypes.
Traditional media often tinkers with methods of storytelling through shifting perspectives, flashbacks, and non-linear timelines. By using these storytelling methods, a show can maintain your attention and build suspense, leading to long-term viewership and a dedicated fanbase. Reality television subverts this formula by presenting an inherent claim of authenticity. The individuals presented aren’t reading directly from a script or playing fictional characters. They are portraying themselves. However, even if individuals present as their uninhibited selves, the narrative does not always reflect it. This phenomenon is directly tied to a type of narrative manipulation called frankenbiting, which refers to using targeted editing and producer-engineered friction to stitch unrelated, raw, and unscripted moments into pre-planned arcs. Rather than document a new story, the genre focuses on likening ordinary people to heroes, villains, and other historic archetypes. Combined with strategic use of confessionals and moments of intense, relatable emotion, producers can construct a compelling and familiar narrative.
So despite extensive evidence that reality television is often manipulated, if not outright staged, it is understandable why many people still believe that there is some element of truth. Randall Rose and Stacy Wood say it best in their 2005 article: “Although authenticity is desired and earnestly promoted, consumers of reality television revel in the ironic mixture of the factitious and the spontaneous.” In other words, viewers aren’t as invested or engaged when there is not a narrative to follow, but producers must toe a fine line between staging and encouraging. Over twenty years later, this initial understanding of reality television still rings true.
Over the course of a season of Love Island USA, audiences watch as their favorite contestants explore possible romantic connections, compete in challenges, and lounge by the pool. Individual interviews detailing contestant thoughts and feelings periodically frame the show, commonly referred to as confessionals. Confessionals originated with the hit reality television show The Real World, where cast members discussed their fellow housemates and overall experiences, allowing producers to articulate a narrative seemingly already present in the house. Using strategies popularized by Survivor, Love Island USA’s confessional clips are strategically placed to guide viewers’ opinions, and producers encourage contestants off-camera to behave in certain ways.
Despite these strategies, Love Island USA feels authentic to viewers, even more so than its popular competitors such as Too Hot to Handle or The Bachelor franchise. The artificial environment and constant producer presence do not appear to impact the emotional situations shown on screen, experiences that many viewers recognize from their own lives. Watching someone be blindsided by rejection, caught red-handed lying, or any of the other Love Island cardinal sins sparks recognition and feelings of intimacy. How could tears and feelings that seem so real be faked? They typically can’t, at least not convincingly and not for long. The issue at hand isn't simply that reality television manipulates reality. The problem is which stories producers consistently choose to amplify out of that reality, and what narrative those stories construct around contestants of color.
The show's treatment of one of its season six stars, JaNa Craig, illustrates how these production choices often reinforce existing stereotypes rather than simply documenting interpersonal conflict. JaNa Craig, a dark-skinned Black woman, debuted on Love Island USA and garnered support for her funny confessionals and bubbly personality. Despite being deemed likable by the fan base and fellow islanders, Craig was repeatedly portrayed as undesirable throughout the season. The narrative that emerged positioned Craig as a scorned hero, drawing support when she was ‘finally’ chosen in the later half of the season.
Excluding the seven individuals who did not couple up, or pair with a fellow contestant, the average number of matches during the sixth season was approximately two. Craig, as one of two dark-skinned black women to start the show, was recoupled or dumped the greatest number of times. She switched pairings six times, rivaling the runner-up for the season, Leah Kateb. Craig notably spent the most time single on the show, spending six days in total not being coupled up. These recouplings, rather than being depicted as Craig’s fault or a failing in the relationship, were mostly perceived by fans as the result of the men developing closer bonds with someone else.
Initially, this may seem innocuous to viewers, but evidence suggests otherwise. After leaving the villa, in an interview with NBC News, Craig expressed that she felt some male contestants might not have been interested in her and fellow contestant Serena Page due to their skin color. This concern is notable because, unlike in everyday life, producers control the composition of the dating pool in the Love Island villa, deciding who enters and when. Through a rigorous pre-season screening and interview process, the Love Island USA producers are uniquely aware of each contestant's dating history and preferences. Every bombshell, or new contestant, is hand-picked for the cast, yet Craig and Page said they felt undesired by the male contestants. Regardless of intent, the result was a season in which Craig’s “repeated L’s” became a recurring narrative, despite producers having numerous opportunities to introduce contestants who might disrupt the lack of dating prospects experienced by the season’s darker-skinned women. As a result, these women do not experience the same opportunities as their fellow contestants, despite the appearance and promotion of diversity.
But perhaps the true magic behind this perception of authenticity is a lack of time to think, for viewers and contestants alike. Rather than being cast, filmed, and edited a year before release, Love Island USA operates on a very tight schedule. Episodes are filmed, edited, and released daily as the show is airing. This creates a unique relationship between Love Island USA and its fanbase. Through the show’s voting system, fans influence recouplings, winners, and who leaves. A passive viewing experience becomes an active vote, with pressure placed on fans to ‘choose correctly’ or risk messing up the show’s dynamics. This creates an interesting paradox where fans search for evidence of authenticity in the contestants, even as producers manipulate their likenesses. Yes, JaNa was eventually chosen after fans voted other contestants out and new bombshells came in. But what narrative does the show perpetuate if Craig and women who resemble her are repeatedly passed over for their lighter-skinned peers? It is also relevant to note that last summer JaNa Craig and her partner from Love Island USA, Kenny Rodriguez, broke up for unknown reasons. Friends and former contestants close to Craig have since stated that Rodriguez was allegedly being disparaging towards black women and pursuing the relationship for money.
Part of Love Island USA’s power originates from the fact that its emotional authenticity shields the production choices that further reinforce racialized and gendered narratives. Where traditional film and media can create characters to match a plot or narrative, reality television shows struggle to define narratives that already exist among real people. Conflicts often created and solved within the same day are spliced across episodes and manipulated to maintain viewer interest. To create and sustain these fast-changing narratives, villains and heroes are fabricated and treated accordingly by both production and the fanbase.
Narrative manipulation becomes much more apparent in the seventh season, where Huda Mustafa was portrayed toward the end of the season as the “hero” who overcame bullying and a poor coupling to come out single and victorious. But was there any validity to this portrayal? Throughout the season, two individuals, Olandria Carthen and Chelley Bissainthe, establish romantic connections and friendships with the other girls alongside Mustafa. For the most part, the three operate as friends and appear to look out for each other. However, in the second half of the season, Carthen and Bissainthe grow somewhat distant from Mustafa, clashing with her in a confrontational challenge. Fans responded with widespread accusations of bullying. Huda seemingly had not done anything to these girls, so why were they icing her out?
In Love Island USA, tense moments between cast members are often accompanied by ominous music, reaction shots, and repeated, extended focus on certain facial expressions, even if originally minuscule. These deliberate production choices frame the scenes, and when paired with carefully selected confessional clips, mountains can easily be made from molehills. And fans are certainly not scared to call out perceived slights.
When considering the conversations in isolation, it would appear that the accusations of bullying emerged when the two women begin to establish boundaries, such as Carthen asking Mustafa not to publicly remark on Carthen’s embarrassment during a recoupling or Bissainthe asking whether they can temporarily postpone a conversation. Neither is a condemnable offense, but fans on social media construed them as deliberate, direct acts of bullying. In isolation, it would appear that all Bissainthe and Carthen are doing in these moments is establishing boundaries. So why did viewers widely treat these instances as examples of a more sinister plotline?
By the time audiences see these interactions, they may already have been resolved or forgotten, but viewers witness these conflicts as long-lasting and more dire than they were in the villa. So, despite Bissainthe and Carthen biting their tongues most of the season, Love Island USA utilized these conflicts as promotional material across several episodes. This became the primary conversation surrounding the end of the season, with fans online rallying behind Mustafa and voting her second place, despite the fragility of her coupling. Many fans leaned into the “angry, Black woman” stereotype online, overemphasizing the hostility and length of the behavior. The harm that stems from this is not isolated to the screen, nor the boundaries of the show. In the later half of the season, despite Carthen and Bissainthe being relatively beloved by their fellow islanders, some fans directed racist harassment towards the two women. This hate campaign continued for much of the season until the reunion, with outlets such as BuzzFeed even offering Bissainthe and her partner a “knuckle sandwich.” These Black women weren’t given the benefit of the doubt by fans, but instead condemned and harassed online for behavior that barely lasted a week.
Because reality television is widely consumed as authentic, Love Island USA functions almost as a form of public pedagogy, shaping viewers’ understandings of desirability, romance, and accountability rather than merely reflecting them. Since the show moved to Peacock after the third season, the casts have become increasingly diverse, but that is only the first step. If the narratives surrounding contestants continue to reproduce familiar hierarchies of race, gender, and desirability, representation becomes superficial. Representation isn’t just about who gets cast. It is about who gets to be complicated, desirable, and loved.
Caro Garlich (BC ‘28) is a staff writer for CPR and a junior at Barnard College, majoring in English and Political Science. They are most interested in exploring the relationship between literature and politics, in conversation with broader social movements.